RACE REPORT: Peninsula Marathon – Relieved. Happy. Grateful by Russell Mackintosh

Trepidation is an emotion that is not uncommon when standing at the start of a marathon, but milling around the throng of fellow runners on Somerset Road just after 5am on a cool summer’s morning I had more questions swirling around my head than usual.

My previous marathon – Cape Town Marathon in October – had been a complete bin fire. I had managed to drag myself around the course 7 minutes inside cut-off, feeling awful for the entire journey. It had been my first marathon post Covid, and also my first since knee surgery to reconnect a ruptured patella tendon.

So was running against cut-offs my “new normal”, or had Cape Town Marathon been an aberration?

Would the training miles I had put in recently make a difference? Would “No Beer February” pay dividends, or had I denied myself the pleasure of a good few Windhoek Lagers to no avail? All these musings were disturbed by the sound of the start gun, and we were off and running . . .

I was in the company of the Chairman and Bruce Swanson as we headed into the city centre, and my plan was to run as comfortably constantly monitoring my breathing and how the legs were feeling. I had no specific time goal, just to run comfortably for as far as possible, and not get caught up running someone else’s race.

The field slowly started to stretch out as we dropped down Wale St and turned into Adderley St. The faster runners had looped back up Adderley on the other side of the road, and we saw Dave van Ginkel flash past (on his way to an impressive 3:17 finish).

I always find the Salt River/Woodstock stretch quite taxing as it feels subtly uphill, with the road framed by non-descript buildings in the half light. It was on this stretch that we first felt a gusting southeaster that I hoped would not intensify later in the race. Halfway along this “dead stretch” we were suddenly reminded that we had been running in South Africa, as the street lights suddenly flickered on signalling the end of a period of load-shedding.

I was thankful that I had started with a soft flask filled with GU Roctane energy drink, as the water tables were more chaotic than opening time at Makro’s Black Friday sale. The poor volunteers manning the tables were struggling to fill cups as runners swamped the tables, and the plastic cups were blowing around like confetti.

After a couple of shambolic water tables Bruce dived into a garage shop to buy himself bottled water, thus avoiding the mayhem for the next few tables. Bruce, Andrew and I moved comfortably through Rondebosch and Newlands, noting familiar landmarks – “Ah, the Pig & Whistle used to be there” . . . “We’ve just crossed the Two Oceans start line” – as we went along.

We caught up to Shani in Kenilworth, and her vibey conversation was a welcome addition to our little bus. After pulling us through Wynberg and Plumstead, she announced that her plan was to stop in Lakeside as she was running the Cango Marathon the following week. So when Shani spotted Renate a little further up the road and steamed off, none of us tried to follow.

We passed through the halfway mark in 2:07. Each water table had become a short, enforced walk,as a cup with coke/water in it had first to be located, before an attempt was made to consume the contents without taking a hit of coke (not to be confused with the white powder variant). up the nostril.

In Lakeside we waved as we passed Shani relaxing on the pavement, and after 27kms the Procter/Swanson/Mackintosh triumvirate finally split up as we each locked into our own race plans.

I was now catching the backmarkers in the half marathon, and although this required a bit of bobbing and weaving, the feeling of constantly passing runners had a positive psychological effect.

I started occupying my mind by counting down the stations . . . Muizenberg . . . St James . . . Kalk Bay. My legs were starting to feel a bit of discomfort, but I was still moving well as I approach Fish Hoek. Familiar faces at the STBB water table lifted the spirits, and the fantastic club support along Beach Road made one feel as though they were a celebrity cruising along a red carpet.

I took my first tactical walk just after the short sharp rise at the end of Beach Rd, but almost immediately the lady next to me in a lilac vest said: “Why are we walking here, we should be running!” . . . I tucked in behind her, grateful for the tow all the way to Simon’s Town station.

I took another short walk on the rise after Admiralty House, where I found an old running friend Gavin Craig, and we cajoled each other along. On the last rise before the turn down to the finish, Iheard Lilac Vest behind me, imploring: “Fish Hoek, don’t you dare walk now!” It was never my plan.

We turned, the large brown stone wall to our left, ahead the crowds of cheering supporters and then we were on the grass, 50 meters to go . . . across the line seconds before the digital timer clicked over to 4:18.

Relieved. Happy. Grateful.

Maybe my future isn’t racing against cut-offs . . . not for a while at least.